Thursday, December 25, 2008

Anathemitize.

You look at the pop tart in the microwave. Circling and heating up as I hold my cup of coffee waiting for the caffeine to kick in. This is the time to make your plans and schemes for the day as you plot your survival for another day. It is a crisp autumn morning and you see condensation form clouds in front of your mouth as you turn around to lock your door. You fake blow a draft of air from your mouth and you still feel a childish thrill at an age when they are long outlawed. You light your first cigarette and inhale as the fire-air fills up your lungs, blackening an already tarnished soul. An auspicious start. The walk is one cigarette long and the bus to work pulls up right when you reach. Maybe this won't be such a bad day after all. You chivalrously wait for everyone to get in and before you do too, you collect a gob of spit and let fly from your mouth.To remove any tobacco residues of course.

Rituals, they say, bring discipline for the easily distracted. For the most part it is superstition. We all have them, I suppose. Be it as banal as a right-sock-first or as sober as praying. My ritual is watching the microwave cook. If I am heating my ramen or on that rare occasion, while boiling rice, there is a certain feeling that I harbour with watching the food turn while it is getting ready. The food for me and I for the food.